Heroin Chic

The last marshrutka out of town sat in the parking lot waiting for me.  I noticed the driver noticing me and asked when it departed.  He said it would leave when it was full.  Standard.  So I figured people were done for the day with Isfara and shopping and were ready to get a move on, so I sat in the back and waited for it to fill up.  Suddenly the doors shut and we took off, with only 4 other people in the vehicle.  I asked why were had left and he told me something that I didn't understand.  I guess what he was trying to say was, "Oh, we have to go drive behind this mosque where another van is parked and we're going unload about 30 seran-wrapped duffel bags full of heroin from that van into this one and then the guys who are escorting it will also get in the van with a bunch of guns and we'll take off for Khujand."  But, come one, I should have been able to figure that one out.  Not as intuitive as I used to be.  

Obviously I was afraid to pull out my camera at this time because they might think I'm a journalist or something and I didn't want to be silenced for good so I was only able to take these super artsy, covert photos out the window of the marshrutka, and if you ask me I wouldn't have it any other way.  

So off we drove, with me feeling particularly angsty and worried that I was going to spend the rest of my life in a Tajik prison (if I had to spend the rest of my life in Tajikistan I would have preferred that teahouse in Isfara).  I resolved that if we were stopped by the police or authorities then the driver would probably just pass a bribe, and if they asked me anything I would just become so inconsolable and irrational that they would ultimately knock me in the face with the butt of an AK-47 which would render me unconscious and I would therefore have to answer to nothing.  So the thought of this kept me calm.

This is a toilet I once used.  Number 1 only for me though.  

It was actually pretty okay ride.  I was with lots of locals and the heroin traffickers were nice people.  They offered me cigarettes, which is something I always appreciate, even if I also consider it the equivalent of rubbing a lobster on its forehead to put it to sleep before plunging it into boiling water.  Anyway, things were going well and I thought that I would be fine until we suddenly passed through a checkpoint.  There was a Kyrgyz flag flying there and I thought to myself, "No…I just came from Kyrgyzstan.  I can't go back" and it dawned on me that just like Uzbek enclaves in Kyrgyzstan there were Kyrgyz enclaves in Tajikistan.  Making a serious effort to re-swallow my heart, which had recently lept up into my throat, I shrunk down in my seat, put on my hood and iPod, and prepared myself for whatever fate had waiting for me.  Would I get arrested for drug trafficking, or entering a country illegally?  Or something new entirely?  That's the fun of travelling!

We breezed out of the next checkpoint, which indicated we were back in Tajikistan.  I could breathe again.  I thought things were going to be okay and that I had just skirted near death.  I was thinking myself pretty hardcore, when we suddenly approached another Kyrgyz flag and sandbag dugouts with barbed wire and I told myself to remain calm.  It's kind of like when you're on a roller coaster and you need to prepare yourself for each drop.  I was prepared, but not for the drop that was coming next.  Suddenly the vehicle stopped and the driver got out.  Another marshrutka had stopped up ahead and the two drivers met and started taking, then yelling and hollering and gesturing.  Suddenly the side door opened and the driver told me to get out.  The vehicle had stopped and I had to get out and stand on the side of the road in a Kyrgyz enclave that I had illegally entered.  Just guess what kind of emotions were coursing through my veins at this moment.  

I was teetering on the precipice of becoming totally erratic, and nearly required a rifle-butt to the face to calm me down, but I was ushered into the marshrutka in front, which contained more people, and considerably less heroin.  Like, 100% less heroin.  Everyone smiled at me as though they had been waiting for me, and we all happily went into Khujand, where everyone fought over the privilege of helping me find an internet cafe.  Where the heroin ended up, I have no idea, but I have used my cartographic skills to come up with a hypothesis:  Vancouver.